


They're So Pretty When They're In Pain

by procellous



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse of Khuzdul, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Animal Transformation, Cannibalism, Culture building, Deaf Character, Death, Demons, Disease, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Family Feels, Gen, Hell, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Imprisonment, M/M, Magic Food, Major injuries, Meta, Minor Injuries, Nightmares, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexually Transmitted Diseases, Sibling Incest, Slavery, Stiffbeards, Suffering and Pain, Suicide, Surprisingly Fluffy Demons, The Runestone Baby, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:54:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2678048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procellous/pseuds/procellous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or: How Many Ways Can A Kíli Die</p><p>Tolkien-flavored drabbles of varying lengths and qualities. Mostly featuring dead!Kíli, wounded!Kíli, and suffering!Kíli. Also featuring dead!Fíli, sick!Fíli, and crying!Fíli. </p><p>Warnings in Chapter Notes</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Directory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kattybats](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattybats/gifts).



Chapter 1: Directory

Chapter 2: Goblin Slave (torture, slavery, imprisonment, dehumanizing usage of it pronouns, internalized dehumanization, mentions of rape, gore, crucifixion, forced body modification, castration)

Chapter 3: Plague (death, child death, suicide, disease)

Chapter 4: Barrels Are Not Always Fun (death, thoughts of suicide, somewhat canon bofa ending)

Chapter 5: Runestone Baby

Chapter 6: Ubúrushkhathukaz (death, syphilis, (brief) discussion of suicide)

Chapter 7: Runestone Baby 2 (ableism)

Chapter 8: Runestone Baby 3

Chapter 9: Hell

Chapter 10: Venelite (extreme dubcon, kili is a possessive creepy shit)

Chapter 11: Stiffbeards

Chapter 12: Fever Dream (emotional abuse, sibling incest)

Chapter 13: Hungry Fíli (cannibalism, implied rape, implied suicide)


	2. Goblin Slave AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: torture, slavery, imprisonment, dehumanizing usage of it pronouns, internalized dehumanization, SLAVERY, TORTURE, mentions of rape, gore, crucifixion, forced body modification, castration

The first thing it was aware of was pain. Incredible, burning pain. There was some cloth in its mouth; a gag? Its eyes slitted open, revealing a dark chamber, and bloodied walls.

Its hands and feet were in extreme pain, and a quick flex of its hand had it screaming. The cries were barely muffled by the gag.

Every movement hurt — a single shift caused its back to erupt in pain, an attempt to stand caused its back, legs, ankles, and feet to protest, and it was halted by the bindings on its hands and feet. Though the motion brought something to its attention — something was missing.

It glanced down at itself. It had been stripped of clothes, which were in a small blood-stained pile in a corner, and every inch of its body was covered in marks. Bite marks, mostly, and whip scars. Further down, it realized exactly what felt so strange.

It had been castrated. The stitches were rough and the wound was red and oozing pus, but every worry of infection was pushed aside by shock.

Where was it? Who’d do this?

How did it get here?

It thought back, searched its memory, but found nothing but the pain. What had done this to it? Dark, misshapen figures with cruel smiles. One of them had been so much bigger than the rest, a giant hulking monster with a twisted crown.

Goblins. Goblins had…what had they done? How did it get here?

It had a vague memory, a fuzzy thing that drifted away as soon as it realized it was there.

The chamber filled with sudden light, and it had to blink away the spots that appeared in its vision, squinting in the brightness.

“Now then,” a high, reedy voice said, one that it knew from the pain. This one had caused the pain. “Let’s see what’s left of you, shall we?”

Long, thin fingers poked at it, scraping fingernails across its skin. Every movement brought with it muffled gasps of pain, which caused the goblin to laugh.

“Glob! Thrak shufar!” One of the smaller ones brought forth a whip. Each of the nine strands had a metal shard through the tip and bits of stone pressed into tar along the cords.

Some of the goblins untied the bindings holding it to the wall, moving it so that its back was presented to the torturer. The goblin laughed as the ungentle hands caused it to scream with pain.

The first lash fell like fire. Not even the filthy gag could stop the screams as the lashes fell faster and faster. It tried to count them, but lost track at around fifteen.

Its back burned. It could feel long strips of skin hanging down its back, torn out of place by the whippings.

Finally the whipping stopped. A goblin cut the strips from its back and laughed.

“Tharb,” the torturer called.

There was some scurrying, some snapped insults, and then its back was on fire once more, a liquid painted on in broad strokes. The pain was indescribable. Was it being poisoned? Was this the end for it? Or were there more tortures in store?

It wished that this was poison. Even a drawn-out, slow death, was preferable to this.

Its vision swam with darkness.

It woke up again to find that it had even more scars, messy, half-healed things. It’s memory was even fuzzier. All it could remember was pain. It could remember remembering, that it had once had memories, but they were gone.

Like mist, it thought, then wondered what mist was.

“Pushdug. Nalt.” It knew the voice, but the words made no sense. “Marr. Nalt!” A hand gripped it by the hair and forced it to its feet. The goblin dragged it out of the chamber and into a dark mine.

“Garmog!” The goblin ordered, shoving it at the rock. “Garmog!”

It didn’t understand, but the whip in the goblin’s hand made the threat clear. Follow the order or be punished.

There were others there, and it risked a glance at them. They were digging, scrabbling at the rock with broken nails and bloody fingers. It began digging as well. The rock was thick and solid, and it barely managed to scratch the surface when another order was called.

“Nadal! Kjani!”

Everyone stopped digging, and it followed their lead, moving towards the goblin throwing rotten…something vaguely resembling bread, if it squinted.

Bread summoned up fuzzy memories of warmth. But it couldn’t feel anything but cold.

It couldn’t keep track of time, and didn’t quite know why time was important. It counted food breaks, at first, but they were few and far between. Everything was the same: digging with its hands at the hard rock wall, with an occasional order of “Nadal!” or “Ma-shapt!” “Ma-shapt” was usually accompanied by a whip crack.

It learned the basic commands: up, dig, stop, faster, food. It learned that there was nothing that could keep the goblins from torturing it if they wanted to. Working harder just made them laugh. It learned it was a particular favorite for torture, because it survived where others did not. Hot iron brands were seared into its skin. Large chunks of skin were stripped away. Occasionally, it would be used for other purposes; tied down with its legs apart as the goblins had their fun, again and again.

All it knew was pain, and dark, and cold. The last memories of anything else faded away, despite its attempts to cling to them.

Pain, dark, cold. In time, it forgot that there was even a word for them, because what else could there be? Fish do not have a word for water.

It didn’t know what either of those were.

It was not alive, it thought, in the quiet moments of work. It simply was. Nothing less, nothing more. All the others with it in the tunnels died and new workers replaced them. It stopped bothering to teach them the commands. They all died so quickly, there was no point.

There was nothing beside the cold, pain, and dark. And then there was something.

It was a one-time chance. The goblins had left their slaves for a moment, and it could see light. It was painful and blinding, but something rose in his chest; a memory, perhaps, or a dream.

It ran. It ran even though it had no clothes, no boots, nothing. It ran even though it might be caught. It ran even though it didn’t know what was out there.

There were no goblins behind it. There was no pursuit. The goblins might not have noticed it was gone.

The world was white. It didn’t know what white was, not until it saw this. The world was bright, and it hurt its eyes. It was cold, even colder than in the tunnels.

It was afraid. It should turn back, return to the tunnels. But it couldn’t, not after this. It barely even noticed the cold through the warm feeling. The world was white, and bright, and cold, and it was free! Free to do whatever it pleased!

…what did it want to do? It had never been free before, not that it could remember.

The bright white world faded into darkness, and it was afraid it would wake in the tunnels again.

It didn’t want to go back. It liked being free.

The world was white, and cold, but the memory of a memory preserved within a dream of a dream kept it warm.

It woke to warmth. Real warmth, not the memory of warmth. It was warm. It was a nice feeling.

“Kíli?” a voice said. It didn’t know what to do. The voice was unlike any it had ever heard before, speaking a word it didn’t understand. “Kíli, please, look at me?”

Look at me. That was an order. It obeyed. It was good at obeying. The voice was attached to a face, not a goblin face, more like what the other slaves looked like, only less gaunt and thin, with something unfamiliar in his eyes. His hair was long, like the slaves’, but neat and…braided. That’s the word. He had braids in his hair.

“Kíli? Do you recognize me?” He was afraid. Whoever this was was afraid. But he had asked a question! It should answer. It would be punished for a lie, but the fear in his eyes made it wary of the truth. The face was familiar, vaguely, the same way warmth was familiar.

“I…think so?” It didn’t mean to make the reply a question, but it came out like that anyway. His face crumpled, shoulders suddenly sagging as though a great weight was put on them.

“Oh.” It winced, expecting the first blow to come, but nothing happened. “No, no, no, no flinching. I’m not going to hurt you.” No flinching. Another order, and one it had practice following.

“Fíli, enough of the interrogation. Kíli needs to recover, and that takes time.”

The other was taller, and everything about her stirred up old memories — warmth, and other things it had no name for.

They kept calling it Kíli. Did they think it was someone they knew? Whoever Kíli was, surely they would be angry at it for taking their place? It should leave, should let them find their Kíli.

“Here, Kíli. Eat, it’s good for you.” It was nice, to have orders be given in a language it knew, instead of the goblin’s language, which it was forbidden from using. It had to understand the goblins, but could not speak to them.

It tried to lift its hands to the tray, but couldn’t bend its fingers due to the strips of cloth wound around them. Bandages? Was that the word? But she had noticed its trouble, and it flinched before remembering it wasn’t supposed to do that. “I’m sorry, Kíli, I forgot about your hands. Here, open your mouth.”

It obeyed, and she frowned. Had it done something wrong?

“It’s okay, Kíli,” the blond said. “Amad’s not going to hurt you.”

“Fíli, be quiet.” She spooned some food into its mouth, rich, warm, good food, like nothing it ever had before.

It was dreaming. This couldn’t be real. It was still in the goblin tunnels, and it was going to wake up to a whipping for falling asleep.

But it should enjoy the dream as long as it could. This was a more vivid dream than it could ever remember having, and it would keep it close by as long as it could.  

“Kíli, do you know…do you know who I am?” It shook its head. “That’s okay. I’m your Amad, your mother. This is your brother, Fíli. You’re safe now, the goblins won’t be able to hurt you and I’d sooner cut off my hand than hurt either of my sons.”

A distant memory stirred in the back of its mind. “Amad?” The word felt right. Amad, and Fíli. There was another word stirring in the back of its mind; “N-nadad?”

“Yeah,” Fíli said, “Yeah, that’s exactly right. I’m your nadad, I’m your brother, and you’re my nadadith, my little brother, and nothing will ever hurt you again.”

Its mouth turned up a little and its eyes closed—and then shot back open as it heard a whipcrack. The lashes were bearable, the scars on its back numbing the sensation.

A goblin said something, and the others laughed. It was slapped by one goblin, and the others dragged him away to a familiar contraption. It wasn’t used much, but the few times it was were seared into its memory.

A wooden cross, still blood-stained from the last victims. It struggled and writhed away from the goblins, earning itself several smacks and a brutal whipping.

Its hands were spread and its wrists were tied to the crossbar, and it scrambled to get a foot on the small ledge to support itself.

A nail was hammered through its left hand, every swing of the mallet driving it deeper and making it scream.

The dream-comfort was still vivid, and it fought to return to it, to the warmth and safety and freedom; to nadad and Amad. But the dream stayed stubbornly out of reach.

Its right hand was next, and each stroke of the hammer was a torture of its own. Its fingers curled as the nail went through its palm.

“Kíli!” The voice broke through the pain, its dream-brother shouting its dream-name.  “Kíli, wake up! You’re dreaming, it’s not real! You’re safe, you’re not there anymore!”

It closed its eyes and opened them again, and found Fíli sitting next to it, gripping its hand with tears running down his face.

“You’re safe, Kíli. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.” He reached out to touch it but hesitated. “They won’t get you ever again.”

Fíli touched it, then, running his fingers through its hair. “You’re safe now.”


	3. Plague

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: death, child death, suicide, disease

”We can’t let you in there,” one of the guards said.

"Please," he begged. "Please, he’s my brother."

"Strict quarantine, kid. No-one comes in, and no-one comes out. Your brother wouldn’t want you to get sick too."

"I just need to see him. Just once. Please?"

"Rules are rules. We can’t let you in."

"Please," Kíli pleaded. "I need to—"

"Look," the other guard said, "if the quarantine is broken, then everyone gets sick. Go home and pray for your brother, that’s the best you can do."

* * *

That night, Kíli returned to the walled-off section of the town. Beyond it, everyone the plague had reached lay in pain. Including Fíli. Entering the quarantine was a death sentence, unless you were one of the doctors treating the victims.

One of the doctors had visited, bringing with her dire news—Fíli lay near death.

The wall was smooth and tall, intentionally difficult to climb. Still, Kíli found footholds, and reached the top. The climb down was just as perilous, and Kíli ended up jumping down the last few feet.

Now, to find Fíli. Luckily the doctors also needed to find their patients, and there was a directory, listing names, conditions, and locations. Fíli was one of the first on the list; his condition listed as near death.

He looked it, too. His skin was pale and cold, covered with sweat. His hair was plastered to his skull, and looked paler, nearly white, though that may have just been the moonlight. He was thin, his face gaunt and shadowed.

His eyes opened as Kíli approached, glazed with pain and fever.

"Fee," he whispered. "It’s me, Kíli."

"Shouldn’t be here," Fíli whispered back, his voice hoarse, "I’m sick."

"I know. That’s why I’m here."

"I’m dying."

"I know."

“‘m scared, Kee. I don’t want to die.” Fíli was barely audible, face turned away on the thin pillow.

He reached out for Fíli’s hand. It was damp and limp, like a dead fish.

"It’ll be okay."

"Isn’t it my job to be reassuring?"

"You’re the one who needs it." Kíli rubbed circles with his thumb on the back of Fíli’s hand.

"I hate this. Being so weak, feeling my life slip away…I thought I would get better. Figured I could beat this. Guess I was wrong."

"It’ll be okay."

"No, it won’t."

"Yes, it will. It’ll be okay."

Fíli may have smiled, it was hard to tell. “‘M so tired…” His eyes drooped half-closed.

"Sleep, Fíli. I’ll be here when you wake up."

His eyes shut.

"I’m not going anywhere without you, Fee. Together, or not at all."

Fíli was asleep.

Kíli stifled a yawn. “Think I’ll go to sleep too, Fee.”

He curled up next to his brother, and slept.

* * *

When the nurses found them the next morning, neither of them would wake.

The plague swept through Ered Luin. No family was spared; everyone lost someone. Mass graves were dug, but they were not enough. Reluctantly, they began burning the bodies. Not a tree stood for miles around.  

Thirty years later, Thorin announced his intentions to retake Erebor.


	4. Barrels Are Not Always Fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major character death, thoughts of suicide, somewhat canon bofa ending
> 
> This is dedicated to Ian Jones, who died at age twelve in a similar manner to the one described here.

The barrels floated down the river, though not very well with the added weight of dwarves. Fíli got a bit banged around as they fell into the river, though not particularly badly, and his particular barrel smelled strongly. If he never smelled apples again it would be too soon.

Kíli, on the other hand, was curled inside his barrel unhappily. Fíli could see a suspicious stain on his barrel as they passed each other. It looked a bit like blood, but was probably nothing—a wine stain, maybe. Or a scratch from the fall. Kíli would be fine, he had to be. But there was nothing Fíli could do until they escaped Mirkwood and got out of the damned barrels.

When the river finally slowed down enough for the dwarves to paddle their barrels towards each other, Fíli went straight for Kíli’s. His brother was curled inside the bottom of it, unmoving. The suspicious stain on the barrel was, in fact, blood.

 _Please just be unconscious, please just be unconscious_ _,_ he prayed.

“Uncle? I think something’s wrong with Kíli!” he called across the river.

Thorin paddled over, concerned. “What happened?”

“He’s not moving and there’s blood in the barrel, I think he’s unconscious but—”

Thorin’s face was grim. “We’ll have to wait until we get out of these barrels before we can be sure. I pray you are right and he is merely unconscious. See if you can find a pulse.”

Fíli reached into the barrel, straining to reach all the way to Kíli’s neck at the bottom of the barrel. Something felt a little off about the bones there, but he prayed it was just his awkward angle. It couldn’t—Kíli couldn’t have—the river wasn’t _that_ dangerous, was it?

He pressed his fingers against his brother’s cold and clammy skin—it was just wet, that’s all—and tried to find a pulse.

“I can’t find anything. But I’m probably just at a bad angle or something.”

The river continued on as Fíli hunted for a pulse. Occasionally he thought he felt some faint stirrings in Kíli’s wrist or neck, but nothing strong and steady like a pulse should be. When they disembarked from the barrels, Fíli hunted again for any sign of life.

Kíli’s lips were blue and his neck was broken. There was no pulse. Kíli wasn’t breathing, either. Fíli, still wet from the river water and slightly banged up from the turbulent current, threw himself against his brother’s limp body, sobbing.

(When orcs attacked, Fíli was on the front lines. He would defend Erebor, defend what his brother died for, and if he died himself in the process, well, it was an honorable death in battle. Better than some of the possibilities that occurred to him in the dark nights in Laketown and the grey days hunting for the secret door and the timeless abyss of Erebor. There were better deaths than falling on his sword—like falling on someone else’s sword.)


	5. Runestone Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fíli has always taken responsibility for his brother, even when he's over his pretty blond head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For once no warnings, aren't you proud of me
> 
> The idea was originally Katharine's but the discussion took so long that "the runestone baby" is a tag now, you're welcome

Fíli cradled the egg close to his chest. The stone was the size of his fist, covered in bismuth-like square spirals. The carving Amad had made on the stone had distorted, hidden by the spirals. He hoped the baby could feel their Umad’s love, deep inside the egg’s core. Kíli’s touch had faded, over the months since his — no, no, he couldn’t think about it. His nibling shouldn’t be formed in grief. The baby was half-formed already, and Fíli — the best Fíli could say was that he was trying. Kíli may have been too young to shape a child, and so was Fíli, but now all Fíli had left was an egg the size of his fist, and he would be damned if he would let the only thing left of his brother go without a fight.

A few members of Dáin’s army had dwarflings of their own, and a few of them offered advice. The advice was well-meant, but wasn’t useful. “Don’t fight the child,” was one of the most common pieces of advice, “They know what they want.”

Over the next weeks, seams of gold revealed themselves, which everyone agreed was a good sign, until they realized that those seams were turning into flowers and leaves.

But Fíli had been warned against fighting the child’s development, so Fíli watched the elvish designs curl around the egg, tightly furled buds unfurling into flowers, and tried to think of a name. He wanted to name them after Kíli, somehow, but every name seemed wrong.

A memory resurfaced — he was five, and his brother was still in his egg. Amad had him look at the name that had just filled in, and let him run his fingers gently over his baby brother’s egg.

 _Kha’ikirikhaz-kirikhgimlaz_ , the name read. Wolf of iron origins, of Iron Star origins.

Khali, he decided. Wolf. It seemed fitting.

"Khali," he whispered to the egg. "You like that? That’s a good name?"

The egg was silent.

He focused on the warmth of Kíli’s love, the distant, unfamiliar feeling (whoever Kíli meant to make the child with, probably) bound up with it, and bound with it his own love, his love for Kíli and Khali.

And hoped. Khali was formed by two young dwarrows, barely of age, and each worked alone.

Khali might die at any time; the egg was far too small and shell of the egg was thick, the space within was tiny. Kíli’s egg had been considered small, and it had been larger than this. Khali was nearly fully-formed inside the egg, but miniscule. They might not survive the birth. If they did, their life would be fragile. Fíli remembered how tiny and fragile Kíli was: Kíli, whose egg was formed by two dwarrows with experience.

_Please, Mahal. Please, don’t take them yet. They’re all I have left._

Outside Erebor, the seasons turned. More and more refugees came by the day, but Dís wasn’t among them. Fíli poured everything he had into the egg; every drop of love he had went in there. He pushed aside every other emotion, pushed aside his grief and his fear and just poured his love into the egg. Winter passed, spring bloomed. Summer passed by as well, and Fíli barely noticed.

He had started eating only when he was forced to, sleeping only when his body started to give up from exhaustion. His eyes were permanently shadowed by dark circles, his face thin. His braids were limp and lifeless, when he wore them at all. His mustache was unbraided more often than not, and his silver clasp sat on the table, gathering dust. (He kept Kíli’s beside it; he’d give it to Khali when they were old enough.)

Eventually, Thorin walked into the bedroom Fíli had rarely left in the past few weeks, grabbed him by his tangled hair, and dragged him away from the egg, muttering under his breath about foolish dwarrows who didn’t take care of themselves.

“Dís will have my hide as it is, without you looking like death warmed over.” He forced Fíli to sit at a table in front of a heavily-loaded plate. “You’re doing nobody any favors by starving yourself, least of all the child.”

“Khali,” Fíli said numbly. “Their name’s Khali.”

“Khali, then. Now eat. You’re not leaving here until you do.”

Reluctantly, Fíli began eating. As he did, a comb began passing through his hair, combing it out. The snarls were gently worked out, the loose remains of braids undone and combed through.

Thorin hadn’t done this since Fíli and Kíli were dwarflings in Ered Luin, when some of the other kids had called them names and pushed them around, and all Fíli wanted to do was to curl into Thorin’s arms, into his uncle’s warmth and comfort and cry like he was a dwarfling with skinned knees and dirty palms. He wanted his uncle and mother to take care of him, wanted Dís to step in and tell Kíli to stop hiding under the bed instead of doing his chores, wanted for all of this to have never happened. He didn’t care about Erebor. Uncle had called, and there was nothing he could have asked Fíli would not do, nowhere he could go Fíli would not follow. Uncle had called, and Fíli had answered, but he missed Ered Luin, missed being a child. Missed sharing a room with Kíli, and waking him up early in the morning, and just having his brother there, with him, beside him.

Thorin braided his hair back as he ate and thought, silent and gentle as he had always been in Ered Luin.

When the clasp was secured on the back of his head, Fíli turned around and buried his face in Thorin’s shoulder. He may have been crying, but he really didn’t care. Thorin was warm and safe, that was all he needed.

“Sh, sh, Fíli, it’s okay. I’ve got you, Fíli, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Fíli sniffled and said, “I feel like a little kid again.”

“You _are_ a little kid. A little bitty baby.” Thorin was teasing, like he had in Ered Luin, like he had back when he was simply Uncle Thorin and Fíli’s biggest worry was whether he and Kíli would get caught for their latest prank, and how mad Amad would be when she saw their torn and dirty clothes.

Fíli laughed. It was hollow and hoarse, but it was a laugh. “Pretty sure you don’t count as a baby after you’ve been in battle.”

“Battle doesn’t change that you aren’t even a century. You need to take care of yourself, _inúdoynamadaz_ _._ I won’t have you drop from exhaustion. Take a break. In fact, I’m forbidding you to go into your room for the rest of the day.” The teasing was gone from Thorin’s voice, replaced with deadly seriousness. A broad hand cupped his chin, lifted his face up to Thorin’s. “I know how badly you’re hurting. I know it feels like you’ve lost everything. But you haven’t, Fíli, you’re not alone.” His voice was soft, his eyes sad, and Fíli understood.

 _Frerin_ _._ Fíli’s second uncle, who died at Azanulbizar. His was not a name spoken often, the pain on his Uncle’s and Amad’s faces always coloring the few things he knew about Frerin. But when he and Kíli had been little, too young to understand why Uncle and Amad always looked so sad, they would play with toy swords, play at being their uncles — the war heroes of song and story, brave Frerin giving his life to protect his brother, Thorin taking up his grandfather’s mantle and leading the Sigin-tharak.

(Kíli had always played Frerin. Nothing hurt more than remembering that. The little games they played in the innocence of Ered Luin seemed very far away, now, and very painful.)

“You need to eat and sleep, _regularly_ _,_ not just when you have no other choice. You’re doing yourself and Khali no favors by neglecting your health. And get out of your rooms more often. I know it’s hard. Believe me, it won’t help you feel better to hurt yourself.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he confessed, turning away from Thorin. “At all. I don’t know how to keep going, Thorin, I’m not you. What do you do when nothing’s left? When everything’s gone? What am I without Kíli? I’m nothing. Less than nothing. I shouldn’t be here, it should have been me who died. He should be here with his child. Who am I without him?”

“ _Galbma wîhyid zugûr_!” Thorin said, smacking him upside the head. “You are Fíli, you are _Upndurkidhuzuraz-kirikhgimlaz._ You are a dwarf, formed from stone and you are loved; by Mahal, and by your Amad and Adad, and by me. Kíli loved you, and Khali will love you. You are a warrior, and you are so very brave, and I am so very proud of you. And when everything is falling down around you? You pick up the pieces and keep going. You are _khazâd_ _,_ built strong to endure.”

“I don’t feel very strong right now.”

“I know you don’t, but listen to me, Fíli: you _are_ _._ And you have others around you to help you shoulder the burden. You are not alone. Nothing can ever replace Kíli, but you are not alone in your pain. You will never be alone.”

Thorin began to hum, tucking Fíli close into his chest and very softly singing:

 _The world was young, the mountains green,_  
No stain yet on the Moon was seen,  
No words were laid on stream or stone  
When Durin woke and walked alone.

 _He named the nameless hills and dells;_  
He drank from yet untasted wells;  
He stooped and saw in Mirrormere,  
And saw a crown of stars appear,  
As gems upon a silver thread,  
Above the shadow of his head.

 _The world was fair, the mountains tall,_  
In elder days before the fall  
Of mighty kings on Nargothrond  
And Gondolin, who now beyond  
The Western Seas have passed away:  
The world was fair in Durin’s Day.

 _A king he was on carven throne_  
In many-pillared halls of stone  
With golden roof and silver floor,  
And runes of power on the door.  
The light of sun and star and moon  
In shining lamps of crystals hewn  
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night  
There shone forever fair and bright.

 _There hammer on the anvil smote,_  
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;  
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;  
The delver mined, the mason built.  
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,  
And metal wrought like fishes’ mail,  
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,  
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Fíli fell asleep as Thorin sang, his breath coming slow and even. Thorin lifted him effortlessly, one arm underneath Fíli’s knees and one behind his back, Fíli’s head resting on his shoulder. Thorin carried his nephew into his bedroom, tucking him under the blankets and putting out the torches just like he had when Fíli was an energetic dwarfling in Ered Luin, tired after a long day of playing at being warriors with his brother.

“Sleep well, Fíli.”

The next morning, Fíli wanted to continue shaping the egg, but Thorin came in and dragged him down to eat breakfast, only releasing him when he was satisfied Fíli had eaten. Then he allowed him back to shape Khali further, warning him that he needed to eat lunch, and if he didn’t, Thorin would come up and drag Fíli down himself.

The next month saw Khali’s egg grow to a proper size, the dwarfling within growing stronger and larger. The colors shimmering across the egg’s surface deepened, the gold seams practically glowing.

It was autumn, nearly a year after Kíli’s death and Khali’s conception, when the name began to come in. Fíli ran as fast as he dared to Thorin’s chambers, egg cradled in his arms, as the cirth began to form.

 _Nur’agani_ came first. Fíli ran his fingertips over the faint letters, waiting for the other half to come in.

Would Mahal reveal Khali’s other parent? Or would Khali have Kíli’s name?

Or — oh, _please_ no, Mahal have mercy, _no_ — Khali could have Fíli’s name.

But Mahal wouldn’t name one of his children after someone who wasn’t their parent. And Fíli wasn’t Khali’s adad, he was their uncle. True, he had been the one to shape Khali, but Kíli wasn’t there to do it, nor was Kíli’s partner, so someone had to.

“New beginnings,” Thorin said. “Fitting, for the first child born in Erebor reclaimed.”

“Kíli should be here for this. For his child.”

“If he could, he would.” Thorin pulled Fíli closer to him. “Now stop wallowing and wait for the parent-name to come in.”

 _Nur’agani-kirikhkha’iaz_ , the name read. _Kíli’s_ name, in clean cirth letters.

“I know that the inner name comes in just before the egg hatches,” Fíli began, hesitantly, “But how much sooner?”

“You and Kíli both waited a week before hatching, but I’d give them two weeks before showing themselves. You two were always impatient.”

It ended up being ten days before Khali hatched. Fíli’s only warning was the egg beginning to shake, and sent a messenger to Thorin, loath to leave Khali. The first cracks began appearing as Thorin slammed the door open, followed by all of the Company. The shell, once so thick, was fragile now, and Khali punched through it easily. One little fist appeared, then a foot, and the entire egg began to fall apart as the dwarves watched.

Khali was tiny. Their eyes blinked open, big and brown like Kíli’s, and Fíli picked them up delicately. Thorin adjusted his grip quickly, so that their neck was supported, and watched as Fíli ran a finger over their face, the unquestionably Durin nose, the dark red hair.

And the empty patches underneath their hair where the ears should be.

Khali screwed up their face and wailed, a high scream echoing around the stone rooms, and Fíli laughed. They were so perfect, with their little fists and feet, a perfect tiny dwarfling with Kíli’s features.

“ _Idmi, Nur’agani-kirikhkha’iaz, dumûsigintharakaz_. Welcome, Khali child of Kíli, of the line of Durin,” Thorin said, and the words were echoed around the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations:
> 
> Amad: mother  
> Umad: grandmother  
> Kha’ikirikhaz-kirikhgimlaz: wolf of iron origins of iron star origins.  
> inúdoynamadaz: son of sister origins; ie sister-son  
> Sigin-tharak: Longbeards (Durin’s folk)  
> Galbma wîhyid zugûr: don’t say things like that (literally, don’t speak wrong words)  
> Upndurkidhuzuraz-kirikhgimlaz: lion (greatest cat) of gold origins of iron star origins.  
> khazâd: dwarf  
> Nur’agani-kirikhkha’iaz: new beginning of iron wolf origins.  
> Idmi, Nur’agani-kirikhkha’iaz, dumûsigintharakaz: Welcome, new beginning of iron wolf origins, blood of longbeard origins.


	6. Ubúrushkhathukaz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: death, syphilis, (brief) discussion of suicide
> 
> This is all Katharine's fault

”Fíli, you don’t have to do this—”

"Yes I do!" Fíli shouted, hands clenched in his sheets. "Yes, I do. Kíli, we both know what’s going to happen, and we can ill afford a mad king."

"It might not happen," Kíli says, but the words fall flat and hollow. "You might be fine."

"Kíli, look at me." Fíli was too-thin and too-pale, his skin covered with an angry rash. "This is for the best. Trust me, little brother."

"Don’t say things like that,” Kíli said.

"And why not?"

"Because it’s not going to happen! You can’t! I’m not going to let you," Kíli insisted, with all the certainty of a forty year old.

"It’s not exactly something you can stop, Kíli." Fíli managed a weak smile, a wry twist of his lips. "I’m abdicating, Kíli. It’s not as though I’m killing myself."

"That’s not funny."

The next week saw Fíli seemingly recover from the disease. The rash faded. He regained the weight he had lost. Only the whispers remained — elf fucker, people said.

Fíli’s abdication was the subject of many fights between Fíli and his family, but what was done was done. Fíli was no longer the Crown Prince.

And through it all, Kíli watched. The sickness could come back at any time, could show itself in any way.

And when it came back, it would kill Fíli.

(Or just drive him mad. Kíli liked thinking of that even less than thinking about Fíli dying — his worst nightmares were Fíli looking at him and not recognizing him. He almost preferred the dreams where Fíli’s eyes were glazed with death.)

Every time Fíli coughed, Kíli panicked. When Fíli got a headache, Kíli couldn’t breathe. Kíli took to shadowing Fíli, rarely letting him out of sight in the childish hope that as long as Kíli could see his brother, nothing bad could happen. Irrational, yes, but nobody complained.

Then came the Quest. Reclaiming Erebor. Both Fíli and Kíli answered Thorin’s call, signing their names to the contract and ignored the eternal whispers of elf fucker. Besides, nobody in the Company paid the rumors any heed.

Their Burglar was a fussy little Hobbit, smaller than all of the dwarves. He was fifty, which he claimed was middle-aged for a Hobbit but all Kíli could think of was forty-five year old Fíli, pale and thin and far too young, shaking like a leaf with every hacking cough. The reminder was unpleasant, knowing that whether they succeed or fail, Fíli would die before his time.

Fíli tossed and turned that night in Bag End, and Kíli felt like crying.

By the time they were captured by elves, Kíli had panicked at least fifty times over what could have been a sign of the ubúrushkhathukhaz coming back to kill his brother.

The elves separated them, but at least he could see Fíli. They couldn’t exactly hold conversations, but Fíli wasn’t dying yet. He was still alive, and that was more important. The irrational belief that Fíli couldn’t die while Kíli watched was sated.

And then there was Tauriel. Beautiful, strong, clever, and incredibly sexy. _A furious, insatiable rash covering every inch of skin_. The only trouble was that she was an elf, and he couldn’t do that to Thorin, couldn’t do that to Amad. No matter how much he wanted to sleep with her — _too-pale, too-thin, eyes unfocused_ — he couldn’t cost them both sons and leave them heirless.

So he didn’t. He never mentioned anything, not in Mirkwood nor in Laketown.

The morning when the Battle began, he caught Fíli rubbing his temples. A headache, he claimed. Nothing to worry about, nadadith.

The sudden burst of sunlight as they ran into the fray did nothing to Fíli’s pupils, and Kíli wondered if this was what being stabbed felt like.

And when Fíli fell, when his brother’s breathing slowed and he felt Fíli’s heart pump once — twice — never again, he hated himself for the wave of relief he felt. He barely registered the orcish sword through his gut, collapsing on top of Fíli’s limp body.

It felt remarkably like being stabbed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations:
> 
> Ubúrushkhathukaz: greatest pain of elf origins  
> nadadith: little brother


	7. Runestone Baby 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another part of the Runestone Baby Series

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: ableism, a giant spider dies

It’s hard sometimes, being deaf. Khali doesn’t have much trouble in Erebor; nearly everyone knows Iglishmek and is willing to accommodate the princen. Out of Erebor?

The elvish and mannish delegates who come sometimes tend to act as though Khali is invisible or particularly stupid. Whether that’s because of their youth or their lack of ears is up for debate, though the delegates don’t act that way among other dwarflings. They speak slowly, as though that will help, and from what Adad signs to them under the table, loudly.

The trees, though, the trees are nice. There are a few around Erebor, with low-hanging branches that are really easy to climb. They speak to Khali, too, though Adad doesn’t like them to mention that.

They don’t _really_ listen to the trees. Adad’s silly, forgetting that Khali can’t hear, not dwarf nor elf nor man nor tree. Not even the hobbit that visits sometimes. It’s more of a feeling, the trees guiding them along the same way stone does; guiding them to the top of the branches, warning them of a dead branch, that sort of thing. Adad calls it elvish, and warns Khali that it has to be a secret, okay? There’s already suspicions about them among the people, there’s no need to add fuel to the fire.

Adad thinks that the trees aren’t trustworthy, but they haven’t lead Khali wrong yet.

One of the trees, a yew who’s missing most of their branches, leads Khali on a nice little hike around Laketown and Dale to the Greenwood (All of their uncles call it Mirkwood, but it isn’t anymore, it’s the Greenwood). Khali’s met some of the elves that live there, and doesn’t really like them, but the woods are thick and there are so many trees! This must be what Adad and Udad and their Uncles felt when they first saw Erebor.

They place their hand on the first tree they see, a birch, and wait. There’s a slight feeling of _wrongness_ , hard to pin down. But it passes, and they’re lead around to meet the trees and climb them.

It’s just a matter of time before something bad happens.

They had no warning. The trees’ amusement at their antics, climbing around their branches and tickling their bark, increases slightly, and then everything goes black.

* * *

There’s something uniquely terrifying about the dark, especially when one is deaf and heavily reliant on sight to interact with the world. There’s something sticky on their face, but when they try to wipe it off, their hand is met with more stickyness.

Khali can feel themselves start to panic, and remembers her uncles’ lessons, willing themselves to calm.

When their mind is clearer, they take stock of their situation. It’s dark, and quick wriggling reveals that they’re tightly bound, hanging from their feet. They can’t move enough to get to any of their knives…and then they’re falling.

Someone cuts the wrapping open, revealing a vaguely familiar red haired elf with two knives and a giant spider on its back, twitching.

There’s a dull throbbing in Khali’s right arm, and they pray it isn’t broken. They also pray that Adad isn’t going to hear about this ever, because they’ll never be let out of the mountain again if he does.

Their arm, under further inspection and a quick probing, is indeed broken, and Khali curses themself a fool for not paying attention to the wrongness they felt earlier.

"YOU HELP ME?" they sign, and pray that the elf knows Iglishmek.

The elf responds verbally, speaking quickly with confusion all over their face. Khali can catch a word that might be “no,” but can’t be certain.

Damn.

The elf moves towards Khali, and they scramble back. The elf might have just saved them, but they’re not about to trust an elf. Unfortunately for Khali, they put too much weight on their injured arm and fall flat on their back. The elf scoops them up, (and this is embarrassing, being carried by an elf like an incompetent child) and carries them further into the woods, saying something but Khali can’t see their mouth and doesn’t care to.

* * *

The elf takes them to a healing room, and another elf comes in to set their broken bone and wrap it tightly in gauze.

Eventually a third elf comes in, an important looking one Khali recognizes from the diplomatic meetings they’re not technically allowed into — Legolas, the heir of King Thranduil. Probably.

He doesn’t spend too long there, just looks in, recognition flashing across his somewhat impassive face, and leaves.

The next day Adad arrives, pale and out of breath, demanding to see Khali, _right_ _now, they’re my nibling where are they,_ until he’s lead to the room they’re in and scoops them up in a tight hug, pulling back only so that he can sign,

"YOU NO LEAVE MOUNTAIN AGAIN I SCARE."

That’s terrifying. Adad’s never scared, not even when two assassins came to kill him one night.

"SORRY," they sign back. "BROKE ARM."

"I KNOW YOU FALL TREE?"

"NO BIG SPIDER." He does a double take, even paler than before.

"SPIDER?"

"YES RED HAIR ELF KILL SPIDER."

"HER NAME T-A-U-R-I-E-L."

They grin, and create a sign combining T and TREE. “HER NAME TAURIEL.”

Uncle grins back. “TAURIEL GOOD I TRUST HER.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The signs are written the way they are because most sign languages lack articles, prepositions, verb tenses, etc.. Khali should really listen when their gut is telling them something is wrong, but will they ever learn? Probably.


	8. Runestone Baby 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this one! Just dad!Fíli with Khali being all adorable and fluffy.

Khali learns their Adad-who-is-not-there’s name not long after the Spider Incident. They were practicing reading lips in secret, watching Adad’s and Udadith’s mouths move as they speak and sign, learning the words.

They notice an argument between Adad and Udad, one they know they aren’t supposed to know about, because they aren’t signing. Khali would have ignored it, except that they saw their name. Well, it _looked_ like their name at first glance.

"…not Khali’s…" Adad said. It was definitely "not," then Khali, but their name looked off a bit.

Oh.

_Oh._

It wasn’t their name. It was their Adad-who-is-not-there’s name. They mimic the word, comparing it to Adad’s.

Fíli, Kíli. Kíli, Khali. They were named after their Adad-who-is-not-there. It fits with what they know about him, and they sign the name:

"K-Í-L-I." Then stop, frown, and sign, "KÍLI." It’s a K and a MOUNTAIN, like Adad and Udad, but something about it feels like they’re betraying Adad.

They don’t let Adad know for a few days. When they do, Khali’s curled in Adad’s lap even though they’re getting to be a bit big for that, and they reach up to get his attention.

"FATHER NAME K-Í-L-I?"

Adad jerks back, pale and shocked. “YOU KNOW HOW?”

"READ LIPS YOU AND THORIN ARGUE I SAW NAME."

Adad looks like he’s not sure whether to be proud or not. “YES YOUR FATHER NAME K-Í-L-I.”

Khali grins. “KÍLI,” they sign, and add, “YOU MY ADAD.”

Adad tightens his grip around them, shifting them slightly in his lap and tucking their head under his chin. His shoulders are shaking, and there are wet spots in Khali’s hair. He’s crying, they realize. They curl closer into his chest, and press their had against his heart, letting the steady beat lull them to sleep.

Adad’s here with them. Everything else can wait.


	9. Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> villalunae asked: 1. Your OTP 2. Hell 3. Blind-date. Go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings, aren't you proud.

"I’m just saying, give it a shot,” Legolas said.

"I’m not interested in whoever you think I’d be a good match for," Tauriel said.

"Oh no, it’s not me who picked your partner. That was Gimli." The incubus ran his forked tail up Tauriel’s back, laughing as she jumped. Tauriel swung blindly at his tail with her knife. Legolas didn’t seem concerned.

"Ass," she grumbled. "And I have work to do, I don’t have time for dating."

"C’mon, just once? For me?" Legolas’ eyes grew wider, his eyelashes fluttering.

"You know that doesn’t work on me."

Legolas, in response, turned into a puppy and looked up at her with big pleading eyes.

"Drop the act, Leggy. I’m still not going."

"Pleeeeeeeeeeease? Just once? I won’t ask you for anything else for a decade, I swear."

Tauriel knew a losing battle when she saw one. “Fine. I’ll go. Once. And I’m keeping you to that promise.”

Legolas made a little ‘x’ over his bare chest with his tail. “Promise. I won’t ask you for any favors for the next decade. Be in the second circle at ten o’clock sharp, or the deal’s off. And you have to at least say hi to him.”

* * *

"This is a terrible idea," Tauriel muttered as she walked in, trying to ignore the fact that Legolas’ idea of a date takes place in a strip club. Then again, _incubus_.

Table in the corner, he had said, furthest away from the door, so you can’t try escaping early. The table in question was at least on the other side of the small, darkly lit room from the strippers. She had nothing against strippers, really, it was just that a strip club was not a very good place for this situation.

The demon who approached her there she vaguely recognized. He worked with Gimli in the fourth circle, she knew, but didn’t know his name or anything about him.

"Hey," he said. "You’re Legolas’ friend, right?"

"Yeah. I’m Tauriel."

He grinned. It was a very nice smile. “Kíli, at your service.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It says something about me that what is possibly the least angsty chapter of these is literally set in Hell, but I'm not sure what that is.
> 
> You can play a nice game of "Spot the Inferno References" if you want to.


	10. Venelite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a reason dwarves are seen as greedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: dubcon bordering on noncon (there's no actual sex but. implied. and creepy magic food. it's as consensual as I can make it given the source material), kíli is a possessive creepy shit
> 
> If you've ever heard the song Venelite by Sorten Muld, you know what's coming.  
> If you haven't, here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3fT_itbpE0  
> And here are the lyrics, plus a translation:  
> http://www.noside.com/nsd6035note.html

\- Tiril liril lilil haugjen min  
og de leged så let gennem lunden -

She is beautiful like this.

It is a thought he has often. His love—and make no mistake, she is _his_ —lies stretched out on the furs covering their bed, smiling at him through half-closed eyes.

He has taken her from the forest and taken her into the Mountain. He has given her dwarf-food and dwarf-drink, and there is a reason the dwarves are called greedy. She is _his_ , and he has lost enough to be possessive of what is his.

She is beautiful, wearing nothing but the jewels he forged for her. The thin chains of red gold snake up her arms and chest and dangle from her hair. The emeralds he set into the ends dangle by her eyes. There is a thin, deceptively delicate-looking, mithril chain around her neck—a collar, though a loose one. It falls to her collarbone, nearly loose enough to fit over her head, but not quite loose enough. It is a taunt, of a sorts, and a claim. She is _his_ , and no-one else’s. She left her forest, accepted the food and drink he offered her. She came to him, gave herself to him, she is _his_.

Her long red hair is well-suited to possessive dwarven braids. They circle around her head, coiled and tied at the nape of her neck. He returned the favor she gave him as he recovered from the poisoned arrow; she had worked braids into his hair then, he does the same for her now.

He sees her desire, sometimes, when she stares into the distance as though listening for something she cannot quite hear. It is a look he knows well; has seen it on his uncle’s face enough to know what she longs for. She smiles in her sleep, and he knows what she dreams of.

She has eaten dwarf-food and drank dwarf-drink, and wears dwarf-braids, and came with him to the mountain, accepted the food and drink he offered her. (He had told her what it meant, to eat and drink at a dwarven table. She smiled as she took her first bites.) But she desires her forests, he knows it, she desires her home.

He is selfish, and she is beautiful—and dwarves are always weak for beautiful things.

He will never let her leave.

\- Tiril liril lilil haugjen min  
og hun kalder så sagte i vinden -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiril liril lilil haugjen min: Tiril liril lilil haugjen min  
> og de leged så let gennem lunden: And they played so gently through the valley  
> og hun kalder så sagte i vinden: And she calls so softly in the wind


	11. Stiffbeards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I meta about Stiffbeards (and get really homesick in the process)

There are, of course, _seven_ clans of the dwarves. In the west are the Longbeards — Durin’s folk. Theirs is Khazad-dum and Erebor, theirs is fading culture and dwindling numbers.

In the north live the Stiffbeards. They are often neglected, favoring peace and trade to war. But theirs is a thriving culture around ice and snow. Theirs is the legacy, handed down from parent to child, of blood.

The Ironfist are the most war-like. But the Stiffbeards are the deadliest. What else could they be? They are famed for their silverwork, true, but also for their furs: the great ice-bears of the north give thicker pelts than warg or brown bear. The secret of hunting the ice bear is handed down through generations.

Even more secret is the great whale hunts. The whales are huge, and hunting one is dangerous — as dangerous as fighting a dragon. But oh, the reward is great. Whale oil keeps the lamps burning, keeps out the chill of harsh northern winters. Whale bone forms handles of knives — wood is a scarce commodity in the frozen wastes, and what little there is requires a trek down from the glaciers and into the mountains and the evergreen forests — and the ribs form the fences around the houses. Vertebrae are stools. The meat is dried and eaten. Nothing goes to waste from a whale hunt.

The herds of the Stiffbeards stand taller than a man — reindeer. What use have the Stiffbeards for ponies that cannot survive a winter? No, the reindeer suffice. They are transport and food and hide. A team of reindeer can cross the frozen plains faster than dwarves on foot, even when harnessed to a sleigh. Together with the reindeer are the wolf packs — they are not dogs, they are too wild. And beside the wolf packs are the cats. Thick furred and strong, they survive beside the Stiffbeards they live with. Around their necks are hung amulets of protection and strength, and they help bring down the ice bears.

The greatest city of the Stiffbeards is carved into a glacier, the chill kept at bay through magic — oh yes, the Stiffbeards still have magic. Blood magic, old magic. It is the requirement of their survival. Runes are etched into the ice, are painted onto doorways, are written into skin. Protection. Safe travels. Warmth. Health. Luck. Strength. Images of Mahal’s hammer are everywhere, often painted with runes as well. The Longbeards may have charms, little things to protect their treasure — ha! What would they know of magic, those children of the kindly West? The Stiffbeards know how to bend the blizzard to their will. No Stiffbeard child will ever fear the cold, or need to know the pang of hunger. Their lot may be to be forgotten, but it is also to thrive on the borderlands of the world.

They have their reindeer, their wolf packs, their cats. They have their hunts and their ways and they _survive_ , above all else.

The Stiffbeards survive. That is their way. Before the hunt and the herd and the pack, the Stiffbeards survive. Even unto the ends of the earth, the Stiffbeards survive. There will be no decline for them, no slow fading into the sunset.

When Dagor Dagorath comes, they will hold the North. And when the world is remade, the cities of the Stiffbeards will shine and gleam with ice and spells in the norðrljós, as they always have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Stiffbeards here are a mix of Inuit and Sami with dashes of Viking Age Norse.


	12. Fever Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for: emotional abuse, incest
> 
> Merry Christmas!

The world was hot.

He was in a desert, like in a book, or at least what he imagined was a desert. Hot sand burned the soles of his feet, making him wish for sandals. The sun was unforgiving, and he never hated the blue of the sky so much as now, as he squinted against the sun. There wasn’t the slightest wisp of a cloud to interrupt the sun, just an ever-bending bright blue sky.

He started walking in a random direction, hoping he could find someone, anyone, who might be able to tell him where he was.

A glimmer on the horizon caught his eye – water. He started running towards it, certain that it was getting closer, but there was nothing but sand.

He began to feel nauseous, his head spinning from heat. He tore off the heavy layers he wore, trying to get a breeze to his overheating skin. Eventually he stood in just a thin cotton shirt and trousers.

The wind picked up and began blowing sand around. Some got in his eyes and he blinked rapidly, eyes watering, but it only grew worse. The pile of cloth at his feet was soon buried in sand that seemed to grow deeper as he dug.

The sand turned to liquid between his fingers, just as burning hot but now red viscous goo. Around him, impenetrable blue sky turned into high rock walls, the magma around him oozing from large tunnels and caverns.

His thin cotton shirt was sticky with sweat, clinging to his chest and back.

Again, the scene changed: the magma grew runnier and began leaping in the air, turning from a liquid into flames, roaring higher and higher. Sparks caught in his hair and beard, singing them. The smell of burning hair mixed with the choking smoke, and he coughed once, twice, three times before collapsing to his knees, unable to breathe through the thick smoke.

He glanced up. Above the flames, he could see a distant mountain peak and circling above it, a red dragon. Then the dragon – Smaug, it must be – was in front of him. Smaug opened his mouth, and flames burst forth towards him. 

He was burning. It was like when he had dropped a coal on his foot in the forge, only ten times worse. Even worse than that awful test to see if he was khûthuzul, the one he failed.

The flames around him danced merrily as Smaug vanished into a thin wisp of smoke. One of them came closer to him, shifting into a dwarf-like shape. As he stared at it, it took on more detailed features: a thin nose, large ears, perpetually windswept hair. It opened its mouth and laughed.

“Imhir, nadad, imhir!”

“Kíli? Nadadê, kuf zu jalâ'gili e imhir?”

The Kíli-flame’s laughter grew louder, and another flame joined it. This one took the form of a dwarf as well – a strong nose, an uncompromising set to the mouth; the same features that confronted him whenever he saw his own face, though older and more care-worn.

For once, his uncle was smiling, though it looked wrong; an uncontrolled rictus he had never seen before warping his uncle’s features.

“Zu muneb imhir, mujd-umal.”

“Irak’adad? Irak’adad, kulhu –”

“Dashatê.”

“Amad, lu’zu ya?”

The flame version of his mother smiled; not a rictus like his uncle or a mocking jeer like his brother, but a real smile. If she wasn’t made of flame he would hug her, but as it was he felt his eyes well up in relieved tears.

“Ammâ mamabini zu.” The words cut like knives. Kíli stood beside their mother, the laughter gone in favor of a frown. Thorin stood beside them both, and they were only flame-images – nothing more. A vision, or a dream. Nothing more than that…

The flames started to melt away as bright light assaulted his eyes. He cracked them open and found himself in Ered Luin, in his own room.

Kíli should be in the bed next to his, but it’s empty. The sheets were neatly folded over the thin mattress, the furs perfectly centered. When he touched the pillow, his fingers came back dark with dust.

The room was perfectly in order. No wood shavings from Kíli making arrows, no jumble of clothes in the corner – everything was neat and clean. It was also eerily silent – no matter how hard he strained his ears, he couldn’t hear his mother’s humming as she made bread or his brother shouting or laughing as he shot rabbits for supper. He couldn’t hear his Uncle’s low chuckle or smell his pipe-smoke. There wasn’t even birdsong.

Where was everyone?

He made his way down from their attic bedroom cautiously, mindful of how much the ladder creaked under his weight.

“Amad?” he called, “Kíli? Uncle? Nadad, irak’adad, where are you?”

_“Zu muneb imhir,”_ his memory said. The words of the dream echoed in his ears – but that was a dream. His uncle didn’t think that. Not his uncle, not Thorin, who stood before the Council and named Fíli his heir, overriding their protests that his heir must be his son and could not be khûthuzul, saying: _Are you the kings here, or am I? Fíli has proven himself a warrior many times over, will do so again before I die. Would you have the Line of Durin fall to ruin and decay while you bicker over tradition like fools with their beards tied? Or will you accept that I name Fíli my heir, in the eyes of Mahal with you daft fools for witnesses? He is my sister-son, aye, and as I have no heirs of my body, you must be satisfied with the heir of my heart._

Fíli was not supposed to have heard that, but when his uncle was particularly hard on him, he remembered that speech. His uncle would not have told him he deserved to burn. He wouldn’t. And he definitely wouldn’t call him – call him _that_. Thorin didn’t think of him like that.

It was just a dream. A nightmare. There was an explanation for his family’s absence, there had to be.

Outside the small house, he saw a flash of dark hair. _Kíli_.

“Kíli!” he called. "Kíli, nadadith, what's –” He'd meant to say "What's going on?" but as Kíli spun around, his face a thundercloud, the words died in his throat.

"Look who’s back,” he snarled, voice venomous, “The traitor. Come crawling back, huh? Want us to take you back in? You’re a little late for that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. You’re lucky the council let you keep your beard, there were calls for your head and after what you did I can’t blame them.”

“Nadadithê –” Fíli’s words were cut off by Kíli’s backhand. He stumbled away, cheek stinging.

“I’m _not_ your brother. I shouldn’t even be talking to you, _traitor_.”

“Kíli, what did I do to make you hate me so?”

“Oh, like you don’t know.” Kíli turned and stalked away. “Go and don’t come back. You’re no kin of mine. But then again, you don't care if we're kin, do you?”

“Kíli!” he called, but it was too late. Kíli had left.

Fíli was alone.

In the silence, he remembered the dreams. The heat and blaze mixed with the icy hatred of his family – he couldn’t even call them that anymore, could he? – blurred with Kíli’s words.

He was a traitor. Disowned. Banished; perhaps not in law, but his brother – no, _Kíli_ , not his brother anymore – had turned his back on him, had struck him, had called him traitor and told him to leave.

Who was he to argue with Kíli?

In the quiet, he could let tears fall. Who would see him, who would care? He was no prince.

The sky above him was cloudless, the day sunny. When they were younger, he and Kíli would have gone into the woods on days like that to escape from chores, idled away long hours at the small creek poking at bugs and splashing about.

He wanted to chase after Kíli and make him explain what happened. He wanted, in equal measure, to run the other way, run far away where no-one could recognize him. He had kin with the Stiffbeards; distant, but still kin. They might take him in, or they might not.

A fresh wave of tears spilled over into his beard.

He hadn't been alone like this since…

Well, since he was twenty-four and tried to run away from home, convinced that everyone in his family hated him.

He had dared Kíli to climb an old oak tree, and the branch Kíli was balancing on broke under his weight. Kíli hadn't been badly hurt, just a twisted ankle and a truly impressive amount of bruises, but Fíli had been convinced Kíli was dying, especially because the then nineteen-year-old Kíli had screamed loud enough to wake the dead as he fell.

Fíli had run away that night, but only got about a half-mile away before he realized he was lost in the woods and started crying.

Thorin had found him there, curled into a ball and sniffling, half asleep. Thorin had picked him up and carried him back to their house as Fíli dozed on his shoulder.

The memory stung, in retrospect.

An unexpected wave of exhaustion pulled him from his memories. A nap couldn't hurt, could it? His eyes were dropping already.

He fell asleep as soon as his eyes closed.

There were no dreams, thankfully. Just darkness. Perhaps it was a dream of darkness, because Fíli was aware of it.

A voice cut through the haze.

"Please wake up, Fíli," Kíli said. "Please." There was an unpleasant note of desperation in his voice, and Fíli struggled to open his eyes, to reassure his brother. But no matter how many times he closed his eyes and opened them again, the darkness remained.

"Uncle's not sure if you'll recover. But you will, right? You won't leave me here alone."

“I won't leave you,” he said into the darkness. “I'll never leave you, not unless you tell me to go.”

“You _can't,_ ” Kíli continued. Could he even hear Fíli? It seemed doubtful.

This was a dream, obviously, but not an unwelcome one. A dream with Kíli – even just his voice – was better than a reality without.

“Please, Fíli. Please, I can't lose you. If you can hear me, please, try. For me.” Kíli's voice was thick with tears. “I need you, Fee.”

For a while, there was silence. Then, so quietly that Fíli was half-certain he imagined it, Kíli whispered, “Lenesmi zu, nadadé. Wake up soon.”

Fíli stumbled back in shock. He could not mean what Fíli thought he meant. He couldn't. He meant it as brothers, as family. Not – he didn't. He couldn't.

“Lenesmi zu ya, nadadithé,” Fíli returned. He blinked, wanting to wake up and see Kíli, but all he got for his troubles was the sun in his eyes and a crick in his neck from where he had been curled against the root of a tree.

Right. He was disowned and Kíli hated him. Dream or no dream, that was the way it was.

The wind was cold on his face as he stood. He hadn't noticed earlier, but his head felt lighter—his hair had been shorn. He must not have noticed yesterday, in the shock of Kíli's venom.

This was reality, but it felt like a dream. He _still_ didn't know what he did.

He was alone. So utterly and completely alone that not even the birds wanted to sing for him. More than anything, he wanted to go back to the dream-world where Kíli didn't hate him.

He found himself curled back up under the tree, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to fall asleep.

“Please wake up, Fíli.”

There was an annoying thought niggling at the back of his mind, just far enough away he couldn't place it. Something was wrong, here – something was missing. There was something he had forgotten.

Something about Erebor…

The name triggered a flood of memories. He had left home, Kíli by his side, following their uncle. They had gone to the Shire, and met a hobbit – Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, the Company's Burglar. They had crossed the Misty Mountains through the goblin tunnels, had met Beorn the skinchanger, had gotten lost in Mirkwood and escaped through barrels. There had been a battle… 

There had been a battle, and Fíli had thrown himself in front of a blow meant for Thorin.

This was the dream, wasn't it? Kíli's hatred of him was a dream, just a dream! He hadn't done anything wrong after all. 

He opened his eyes, hoping he would wake up, but all that stood before him was a forest. He closed his eyes, squeezed them shut, and opened them again.

Nothing.

“C'mon,” he muttered, “C'mon, c'mon, wake up!”

* * *

Kíli paced through the room. Technically, he had his own room now, but he slept in his brother's. If Fíli were to wake, Kíli would be there.

It had been three weeks. Thorin had all but given up on Fíli recovering. Oin had pulled Kíli aside early in the wait and told him bluntly that the longer Fíli slept, the less likely it was that he would wake.

Fíli, meanwhile, dreamed. Or at least it looked like dreaming; his eyes moved beneath his closed lids. Occasionally, a noise would slip through his lips, and Kíli desperately hoped that was a sign he would wake soon.

Kíli took to combing out his brother's hair and braiding it. When Fíli woke up, he would want to look nice. Or at least decent. It was tricky with his injured hand, but he managed anyway. 

Fíli slept like a statue, unmoving save for the steady rise and fall of his chest. It was unnerving, because Fíli normally tossed and turned while he slept. If it weren't for the heartbeat and the steady breathing, Kíli would worry he had died.

He was starting to worry that anyway. Fíli's body was alive, sure, but Fíli wasn't there. The room constantly smelled like incense, both to get the stench of dragon out and to keep malicious spirits at bay. There were so many dead in the halls of Erebor, some of them must have spirits lurking about. And if one of them decided to get revenge on Durin's Line for the dragon – Kíli shuddered, forcing the thought away. Fíli would be fine.

He had to be.

A knock on the door startled him out of his thoughts.

“Kíli? Don't pretend you aren't in there, we both know that's not true.”

He opened the door and found Thorin holding a bowl of soup out to him.

“Don't tell me you made this.”

“Bombur did. You need to eat, you're wasting away. I know you're worried, but you need to take care of yourself, too. What would Fíli think if he saw you like this?”

“It doesn't matter,” Kíli muttered. “He's not waking up.”

“Didn't you yell at me for saying something similar? Eat, Kunduzarnithé.”

“I will,” Kíli said and took the bowl, carefully balancing it in one hand. “I'll eat.”

“Good.”

They stood in silence for a while, before Thorin rested a hand on Kíli's shoulder and said, “Eat.”

Then he left, and Kíli was alone.

On the bed across the room, Fíli groaned in pain. Kíli spun, the soup sloshing out of the bowl and onto his hand. The hot broth burned, but it didn't matter.

Fíli's eyes were fluttering open, and he was trying to sit up on the bed.

The bowl slipped from Kíli's numb fingers and crashed on the floor.

“Impossible,” he murmured. Then louder, “Fíli?”

“Ow,” his brother returned, giving up on trying to sit up. “How badly was I hurt?”

“How much do you remember?”

“There was a battle? I was fighting Bolg, and then it’s a little fuzzy.”

“Bolg stabbed you and dropped you. You…you had a broken femur, and some cracked ribs, but the stab wound was the worst of it. It got infected, y’see, and then you weren’t waking up at all and even Thorin said you might never wake up and I was so scared, Fee, never do that again, y’hear?”

“I hear you, nadadithé. I’ll try not to sleep for three weeks straight. You look terrible, by the way.”

“That's what Thorin said.”

“It's true. When did you last sleep?”

“That's not important.”

“Yes it is, shut up and get over here.”

Kíli obeyed, crossing to his brother's bed and sitting on the edge. “Happy?”

Fíli reached up and pulled Kíli down so that he was forced onto the bed fully. “Now I am. Sleep.”

“But –”

“Sleep.”

“I need to –”

“Sleeeep.”

“Fee,” he finally tried, “Let me up –”

“ _Sleeeeeep_.”

Kíli, sensing that he was losing the fight, obediently closed his eyes. “There, I’m asleep. Happy?”

“Stop trying to lie and go to sleep, brat.”

Fíli began to gently card through Kíli’s hair, finger-combing the snarled strands so that they lay smoothly before beginning to braid. At first he only put in thin braids that he took out as soon as he put them in, but he began to braid into Kíli’s hair the symbols of a prince of Durin’s line. As Kíli’s breathing grew slower and he fell into true sleep, Fíli subtly added in another at the back of Kíli’s head.

The pattern for _beloved_ curled across his shoulder. Fíli smiled, admiring his handiwork, before taking it out again. He had no right to claim Kíli like that. 

He pressed his lips against Kíli's forehead. He looked younger as he slept, curling up against Fíli’s chest.

“Lenesmi zu,” he whispered.

* * *

When Kíli woke, feeling better rested than he ever had before, Fíli was gone and his hand had been rebandaged, the wrappings not quite tight enough to be uncomfortable. 

The door creaked open, and Fíli appeared, leaning against the doorframe.

“Well well well, look who’s awake. Good morning, sleepy head. Though really it’s a good afternoon. You didn’t mention how badly you got hurt.”

“Didn’t want to worry you.”

“Oh, you didn’t want to worry me? So you let me find out from Dwalin how badly you and Thorin got hurt? You could have mentioned your hand, at least, or the fact that Thorin lost half his hearing and his left leg? But no, you didn’t want to worry me.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m fine, really.”

“You nearly had to get your hand amputated, pretty sure that doesn’t count as fine.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t, so that has to count for something.”

“Idiot,” Fíli said fondly. “I don’t know why I put up with you.”

“Because you love me.”

“More than you know, brat,” he mumbled. 

Kíli swung his legs out over the side of the bed and stood.

“I will never get used to these beds, they’re far too comfortable.” He stretched, his back making loud cracking noises, crossed over to Fíli, and grabbed his braids.

“What are you doing?”

“Should’ve done this a while ago.” He pulled Fíli’s face close and cracked their foreheads together.

“Kee, do you have a head wound I don’t know about? We do that all the time.”

“That wasn’t quite what I meant to do.”

“And what did you mean to do?” Kíli blushed, and Fíli pressed his advantage. He grabbed the back of Kíli’s head and dragged him down to a kiss. “Was that it?”

“Yeah,” Kíli said, breathless. “Yeah, that was it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations:
> 
> khûthuzul - elf-like  
> Imhir, nadad, imhir! - Burn, brother, burn!  
> Kíli? Nadadê, kuf zu jalâ'gili e imhir? - Kíli? My brother, why do you tell me to burn?  
> Zu muneb imhir, mujd-umal. - You deserve to burn, weed-fucker.  
> Irak’adad? Irak’adad, kulhu – - Uncle? Uncle, what -  
> Dashatê. - My son.  
> Amad, lu’zu ya? - Mother, not you too?  
> Ammâ mamabini zu. - We are disappointed with you.  
> Irak'adad - uncle  
> Nadad - brother  
> Nadadith - little brother  
> Nadadithé - my little brother  
> Lenesmi zu, nadadé. - I love you, my brother.  
> Lenesmi zu ya, nadadithé. - I love you too, my little brother.  
> Kunduzarnithé - my little iron wolf


	13. Hungry Fíli

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for cannibalism, implied rape, and suicide.

Fíli could tell he was not going to have a good day as soon as he woke up.

For once thing, he didn’t know where he was. For another, he was stark naked. A drumbeat pounded between his eyes. And he was _covered_ in blood. Red and sticky, if he had clothes on, they would be hopelessly stained.

His nightmare flashed through his memory. He had been a wolf, in the strange logic of dreams, a wolf hunting a deer. But the deer had turned into Kíli, begging and pleading for Fíli to stop, please, Fíli this isn’t you, _fight it, FÍLI!_

Fíli hadn’t stopped. Eventually the cries turned into silence, and he had eaten his brother.

A glance to the side told him exactly where the blood had come from: Kíli’s mauled body, barely recognizable; but Fíli would know his brother anywhere. It looked like a wolf attack. Fíli would have heard wolves, would have woken up at his brother’s screams, and so would the Company…

Where was the Company?

…Where was he? And why could he taste blood in his mouth?

His heart stopped as the truth set in. His nightmare had been real. He had…he must have brought Kíli out here, sleepwalking maybe? And then had turned on his brother and eaten him.

He vomited onto the grass, away from Kíli’s body. Kíli was nude as well, he noticed in confusion. Why exactly were they both naked? Had he…no. No, he wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have. And even if he did, Kíli would have stopped him. Right?

Kíli, who was weaponless. Kíli, who wouldn’t want to hurt him. Kíli, whom he had eaten, like a starving orc.

He had eaten his brother’s flesh, and if he had anything left in his stomach he would have vomited that up.

What could have possibly possessed him to have done that, and then wiped his memory of that horror? Or at least relegate that memory to a dream. Some dark power of these accursed woods?

He glanced at his brother’s body. Kíli’s face was halfway torn off, making his expression unreadable. Was he scared, at the end? Scared, to realize his brother was a monster, a slavering _wolf_ in dwarf form?

Fíli ran without caring where he went. He had to find somewhere he could hide from what he had done.

_Coward._

The word echoed in his mind. It sounded like Kíli’s voice. Fíli choked back a sob and ran all the harder.

_Monster_.

Branches tore at his skin and tangled in his hair.

He stumbled into a clearing, and as soon as he saw the clear water of a pool he jumped in, trying to scrub the blood from his skin. He closed his eyes for a moment as he dove beneath the water. Kíli’s mangled body flashed before his eyes, and he gasped. Water flooded his mouth, burning his lungs.

He coughed, desperate for air, and knew that his crime was so great and terrible that there was not enough water in the world to wash the blood from his hands. Even the ocean would turn crimson.

The ripples of the pool distorted his reflection and Fíli dove underneath, closing his eyes and forcing himself to stare at his guilt. He opened his mouth. The water burned at his lungs, but he kept himself underwater until darkness swallowed his shame and guilt. 


End file.
